THE DESICCATOR
by Dean Fiora
Summary: The newly deceased are being drained of their bodily fluids. Kolchak's investigation leads him to Uchi Takayama, the young CEO of a Manhattan electronics firm. He admits to seeing visions of a shadowy figure that warns him, "Don't repeat my mistakes."


Kolchak: The Night Stalker in

 **THE DESICCATOR**

by Dean Fiora

(Originally written in 2000)

Japan: Land of the Rising Sun. The Japanese have made many positive contributions to the world. In the last 40 years alone, they gave us the bullet train, pocket calculators, the Walkman, compact discs, the android robot, advanced automotive technology…. The list goes on. There was, however, one recent Japanese import we all could have done without.

Monday morning, September 19th. Norinaga Osatu, 59, was a highly successful Tokyo businessman. He was flying to New York to inspect his various properties in the U.S. He had planned to be stateside for a month. Little did the man know, he was taking his final journey. Three hours out of New York, he suffered a massive stroke; death was immediate. Three flight attendants and the co-pilot took his body to the cargo hold. But when the ground crew opened the hatch, the late Mr. Osatu looked very, very different.

1:15 p.m. I was writing a story about corruption in the Water Department when my desk phone rang.

I grabbed the receiver. "Kolchak."

"It's Heck. Something's going on I think'll interest you."

"Care to give me a hint?"

"I'm a businessman, Carl. Have you ever known me to 'give' anything?"

"All right, I'll on my way." I got up and grabbed my hat. As I was heading for the door, my editor, Tony Vincenzo, waylaid me.

"Kolchak, where are you going?"

"One of my informants just gave me a tip. I'm checking it out."

"Did you finish the Water Department story?"

"I will."

"You will? I need it by five o'clock!"

"You'll have it," I said, walking out the door.

"I'll have it? The only thing I'll have is a heart attack!"

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

Hector "Heck" Salazar was a retired New York City cop. He now worked part-time as a security officer at LaGuardia Airport and supplied me with leads he thought would interest me. I had come to trust Heck's judgment, which is why I drove out to Queens on that gray, rainy afternoon.

When I found Heck at the security office, he said, "Let's go for a walk."

As we strolled the busy terminal, he told me, "We had a guy croak on a flight from Tokyo. Some big mucky-mucky business dude."

"And why should I care?"

"Wait 'til you get a load of the stiff."

"He's still here?"

"Yeah. They haven't carted him off yet."

He took me to the basement storage room where Norinaga Osatu's remains awaited transport to the city morgue. As we stood in front of the locked door, Heck held out his left hand. I gave him a ten-dollar bill and said, "You'll get the rest if, and only if, what you're about to show me is worth my time."

"Oh, it's worth your time." He unlocked the door and we entered the room. The body lay on a gray metal table—if you could even call it a body. It looked more like a dried-out husk.

I turned to Heck. "How long has he been dead?"

"Five or six hours."

"Five or six hours? What happened to him?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm a cop, not an M.E."

I went to the table for a closer look. "It's like every last drop of fluid was drained from him! Is that how he died?"

"No. Co-pilot said the dude looked fine when they brought him to the cargo hold. He dried out postmortem."

"But how?" I pulled out my camera and snapped photos of the decedent.

"So, what do you think, Kolchak? That worth 25 bucks?"

I gave Heck a five and a second ten. I'd get it back from I.N.S.

I returned to the office and dropped off my film at the photo lab. I went directly to Annette, a fifty-something tech whose love of peanut brittle had made (and kept) her plump. I handed her my film, along with a one-pound box of her snack of choice, and asked that she please put a rush on it. Annette was happy to do so. I returned to my desk and bided my time writing the Water Department story that Vincenzo was anxious to see. Once I had the photos in hand, I made my way to Vincenzo's office. I ignored the receptionist, Liza, when she said he was in a meeting. When wasn't he?

I opened his office door to the inevitable sight of Tony sitting with Howard Kirschenbaum of the I.N.S. Corporate Office.

"Kolchak! How many times do I have to tell you not to enter without knocking?"

"I'll let you know when you've hit the right number." I gave Kirschenbaum an unctuous grin. "How it going, Howie?"

His face flushed with anger. "I've asked you not to call me that."

"Yes, you have! And one fine day, I may just honor your most reasonable request. Today, however, is not that day." To Vincenzo, "Here's the Water Department story."

"Oh, good! But it could have waited until after my meeting."

"That wasn't the impression I got earlier. Now take a look at these." I bent over his desk and spread the photos out.

Kirschenbaum said, "Anthony, kindly advise your employee to remove his buttocks from my face."

"Oh! Sorry, Howie. I can see how you wouldn't like that, especially since I had a big burrito for lunch."

"B-burrito?"

"Mm-hmm. I really shouldn't eat that stuff; it aggravates makes my gastritis."

He gulped. "Gastritis?"

"Oh, yeah! Tony, here, can tell you. A few minutes from now, this room will smell like a gas chamber."

Kirschenbaum shot to his feet. "Anthony…."

"I know. You just remembered someplace you have to be."

"Exactly!" He ran out of the office.

From behind his desk, Tony looked up at me, his face not much angry as resigned. "All right, Kolchak, what the hell am I looking at?"

I related what Heck had told me at the airport.

Vincenzo stared at my pictures thoughtfully. "A dried-out corpse only a few hours old. And no one has any idea how it happened?"

"I was going to visit the morgue. Maybe Gordy can tell me something."

"All right, Carl. We're not terribly busy at the moment, so I'll let you work on this. But if something more important comes up…."

"You can trust me, Tony."

He rolled his eyes. "Where have I heard that before?"

My next stop: the city morgue and my old pal, Gordon Spangler—or as he'd rather not be called, Gordy the Ghoul. I had known him in Chicago when he ran a corpse lottery that no one ever seemed to win. Eventually, that got him fired. Two years later, he landed in New York and was still trying to get back on his feet.

I bounded into the room. "Hel-lo, Gordy!"

"Whatever it is, Kolchak, I can't afford to help you."

"Ah, but can you afford _****not****_ to help me? Remember all those debts you ran up while you were out of work?"

"You're going to get me fired. And you won't give a damn, will you?"

"Probably not. But until the day you're terminated, how does 50 dollars sound?"

Gordy paused. "For what?"

"You had a new arrival this afternoon—a gentleman from Japan."

"I should have known it was the dried-out guy. So, where's my money?"

Having just been to the ATM, I forked over two twenties and a ten. Gordy found the right drawer and opened it for me.

I said, "I've already seen the body. What I need is the autopsy results."

"You mean, how he dried out so quickly?"

"What else?"

Gordy pulled the M.E.'s report. "There's not a drop of fluid anywhere in the body. No blood, water, saliva, bile…. It's all gone."

"How?"

"The M.E. found nothing conclusive, but there was saliva located on the exterior, along with what looks like puncture wounds."

"Puncture wounds and saliva. Somebody drank his bodily fluids?"

Gordy shrugged. "Wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've seen in this line of work."

"But that somebody would have had to stow away in the cargo hold of a flight from Tokyo."

"I'll bet he was more comfortable than the passengers. Have you flown lately, Carl? I think they design the seats for bulimics."

The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Astoria, 10:00 p.m. During a heavy rain, Donna MacLean, 45, in a hurry to get home and out of that miserable weather, floored the accelerator to pass what she deemed a slow-moving truck. Her Toyota Corolla spun out of control, bouncing off the eighteen-wheeler three times before it smashed into a guardrail. Mrs. MacLean was dead before the mangled car stopped moving.

The EMTs arrived six minutes later. To their shock, they found a desiccated Donna MacLean behind the wheel. Her body had been drained of its fluids.

I couldn't get to the locus because the accident (and the heavy rain) had backed up traffic, but the next morning I paid Gordy a visit and got the information I needed for a follow-up story. I brought it to Vincenzo, who was not, for once, in a meeting with Kirschenbaum.

As he read it, Tony's eyebrows knitted. "I'm not seeing a connection between the airport incident and this one."

"Tony, both corpses were drained of their bodily fluids! The M.E. found puncture marks and saliva on each of them! How can you not see a connection?"

"I'll admit it's peculiar, but where's the proof? Come on, Carl, you're a seasoned reporter. You know I can't print these allegations without hard evidence."

"What did you want? Video of the dead woman being drained?"

"That would constitute proof, Carl. Congratulations! You're learning." He handed me back the story. "Rewrite it objectively. No conjecture, no allegations, just facts."

As I walked out of his office, I muttered, "You wouldn't know a fact if it bit you on your…."

"What's that?"

"Nothing, Tony!"

Tuesday morning, September 20th. At one time, Harlem was the center of African-American life and culture in New York. However, in this new millennium, like much of Manhattan, it was undergoing gentrification. Corporations and wealthy residents were moving in, displacing thousands of poor and middle-class Harlemites. _The Wall Street Journal_ might consider it progress, but those born and raised in Harlem do not.

One company that bought Harlem office space was Takayama Electronics. Its CEO was Uchi Takayama, 34 and recently named one of New York's 10 Most Eligible Bachelors. As he usually did, the young entrepreneur arrived for work in what he called "the blessed silence of the pre-dawn hours." He didn't know a guest was waiting for him.

Uchi had just turned on his desktop computer when he heard an eerie voice, rasping, "Uchi. Uchi."

He turned his head to both sides but saw nothing. Convinced that he hadn't really heard anything, Uchi returned his attention to the computer.

"Uchi."

Annoyed, he said, "Who's saying that?"

In Japanese, "Don't repeat my mistakes."

"What? Where are you? Who are you?"

Again in Japanese, "Avoid my fate, Uchi. It's not too late for you."

He saw a shadow near his office door. Uchi got up from the desk and approached it. He threw open the door but saw nothing except a dark, empty office. Exhaling noisily and returning to his desk, Uchi murmured, "I'm not getting enough sleep."

Marcus Garvey Memorial Park, 5:30 a.m. Extreme poverty lives in the shadow of gentrified Harlem. One of its victims was Louis Jackson, 53, a hard-drinking Vietnam veteran who fell on hard times and became homeless. Having raised enough cash to drink himself to sleep, Jackson reposed on a park bench, covered in a filthy blanket he had found in a Dumpster. His combat experience had driven the man to spend three decades drinking more than his liver could take. It finally gave out, causing his blood to back up into his throat. Louis Jackson choked to death.

Minutes later, two other members of New York's homeless community happened upon the dead man. Somebody was crouched over him—somebody who would give the homeless couple nightmares for the rest of their lives.

My police scanner jolted me out of a sound sleep with the news. As I live near Harlem and traffic was light at that time of day, I got to Marcus Garvey Park before the EMTs had removed the body. Supervising the scene was Lt. Mark Ludwig, a light-complected meatball of a man whose hate for me was limitless.

Two years before, I had published an expose on Ludwig and his squad, whose use of excessive force on young men of color far exceeded the severity of their ostensible crimes. My story made the national news, with numerous human-rights organizations demanding that Ludwig be fired. He wasn't, but the N.Y.P.D. issued a formal reprimand and demoted him from captain to lieutenant. So I could understand why he wasn't happy to see me at Marcus Garvey Park.

"Kolchak! What are you doing at my crime scene?"

"My job, just like you."

"Don't flatter yourself! You're nothing like me."

"Can't argue with that. I never billy-clubbed a kid in handcuffs."

"Cut the shit, Kolchak!"

"Only if you lick the knife."

He was clearly suppressing the urge to deck me. "Why don't you go back to bed? There's nothing here for you."

"Ludwig, don't tell me how to report the news and I won't tell you how to shoot an unarmed Black man."

His face turned the color of a fire engine. "I ought to shoot _****you****_ for that!"

The lieutenant notwithstanding, I photographed the husk that was Louis Jackson's body. I questioned the EMTs, but there wasn't much they could tell me. When I talked to the uniformed officers on the scene, their reaction was not dissimilar to Ludwig's.

I noticed a Black couple behind a hedge. They were in their 60s and bore the haggard look of the homeless. The man looked horrified, while the woman was in tears.

I approached them. "Excuse me, I'm a reporter. Did you see what happened?"

Sobbing, the woman said, "It was horrible! I never seen nothin' like it before."

I pulled out my hand-held cassette deck and hit "record." "What did you see?"

The man told me, "It was Louis on that bench, Louis Jackson. I recognized his blanket."

"Was he dead when you found him?"

"I sure hope so! Otherwise, that monster killed him."

"Monster?"

His wife said, "It was this big, ugly red thing. Shaped like a man but it had these fangs and big ol' horns and long, nasty white hair. Looked like the Devil, except for those slanty eyes."

"Slanty eyes?" I repeated.

"Yeah! I think it was Chinese or Japanese or somethin'."

"What did it do?"

The husband said, "It was bent down over Louis and its fangs were stuck into his belly. Sure as I'm standin' here, that devil was drinkin' the man's blood out of him!"

The wife told me, "I know it sounds crazy, but we both seen it!"

"Did you tell the cops?"

"Mm-mm," said the husband. "We don't go near no goddamned cops. They don't like the homeless, especially if you ain't white."

I shut off my tape deck. "I'll make a note of that."

A phone call to the morgue confirmed what I already knew. Louis Jackson's body contained not a drop of fluid. Maybe now, Vincenzo would see a connection.

Later that morning, I drove to the East Village. Amid a cluster of restaurants stood a tiny shop whose name I couldn't read;the window sign was in Japanese. However, some investigating on my part had revealed that the store sold books and other items related to Japanese folklore. (As the first desiccated body was on a flight from Japan, I thought it best to focus on that nation rather than China, Korea, Thailand, or any other East Asian country.)

The store comprised a room hardly bigger than a prison cell. It was crammed with ancient hardcover books, wall hangings, different-sized statues of mythological beings, and other items. There was dust on everything, the air smelled of musty paper, and the picture window had not been washed since the Truman presidency. The hinges creaked as I opened the wooden door; the floorboards squeaked beneath my feet.

Sitting on an old metal stool behind the counter was an elderly Japanese man of indeterminate age. He was bald on top, though wispy tufts white hair stuck out from the back and sides of his head. He sported a white mustache with a long, poorly trimmed beard. The man was dressed in a rumpled navy blue suit and tie. He wore gold-rimmed reading glasses as he pored over a book. The man appeared not to notice that I had entered his shop.

I walked up to the dust-covered glass counter and waved. "Umm, hello?"

Startled, he looked up from his book. "Oh, hello. How may I help you?"

"My name is Carl Kolchak. I'm with the I.N.S."

He rolled his eyes and threw the book on the floor. Getting up off the stool, he placed his palms on the counter and leaned in toward me. "How many times do I have to tell you people? I called your office; they said my green card was on its way. Will you please stop harassing me?"

"Oh! No, no, no, no. I'm not with Immigration. I'm a reporter." I handed him a business card. "I.N.S. Independent News Service."

"Ah! My apologies, Mr…." He looked the card. "…Kojak."

"It's Kolchak."

"Yes, of course. So, what brings you to my shop?"

"I was looking for some information."

He said, "I do not sit here all day to give out free information. If you buy something, I will be most happy to speak with you."

"Oh, certainly!" I half-heartedly looked over the inventory and zeroed in on a ten-by-twelve print called _Jigoku_. It depicted scantily clad Japanese with what looked like anvils around their necks. Horned men with pointed tails followed these miserable-looking souls, flogging them with whips. I asked the man, "What is Jigoku?"

"It is Hell."

"How much is the print?"

"Thirty dollars."

"Fine!" Smiling vindictively,I removed it from the wall and brought it to the counter. "This is perfect for somebody I know."

Once I had paid for my purchase, a smile crossed the man's wrinkled face. "Now then, Mr. Kodak…."

"It's Kolchak."

"Yes, of course. What information do you seek?"

"I'm wondering if a being exists in Japanese folklore that drinks the bodily fluids of fresh corpses, leaving them all dried up."

"Ah! You refer to a Hanyaa."

"A Hanyaa?"

"Yes. I will show you." He came out from behind the counter and, among the thousands of books cluttering in the room, honed in on a single volume. He opened it, creating a massive cloud of dust that made me sneeze. The man appeared not to notice. He placed the book on the counter and pointed to an artist's rendering of a Hanyaa. It looked very much like what the homeless couple had described: the size and shape of a man but with blood red skin, cloven hooves,curved, yellowed fangs, lifeless, almond-shaped eyes, long, scraggly white hair, and curved horns that protruded a foot above its head. The Hanyaa's facial expression did not suggest evil so much as suffering and desperation. The accompanying text, unsurprisingly, was in Japanese.

The man asked, "So, what would you like to know about Hanyaa?"

"Whatever you can tell me."

"If a person lives a life of decadence and sin, he will walk the Earth as a Hanyaa after he dies."

"Decadence and sin. Does that mean, say, a murderer?"

"No. If someone has led a truly evil life, they go directly to Jigoku upon death. If someone becomes a Hanyaa, it is because they are still redeemable. A Hanyaa may have spent life pursuing money or pleasures of the flesh."

"So, the Seven Deadly Sins."

"Very good, Mr. Coatrack!"

"It's Kolchak."

"Yes, of course. A Hanyaa sustains itself on the bodily fluids of the newly deceased. If he does not partake, he will die and spend eternity in the darkest corners of Jigoku."

I asked, "Is there any way to stop a Hanyaa?"

"Can a Hanyaa be killed? Is that what you are asking?"

"That's what I'm asking."

"Yes, it can be done. However, that will send a Hanyaa's soul to Jigoku. I doubt his loved ones would want that."

I mulled that over. "How does one kill a Hanyaa?"

"With the Sword of Shinto."

"And where do you find that sword?"

"At the Museum of Kyoto. It is on permanent display there-beneath alarmed glass, and with armed guards present."

"Oh. And there's no other way to stop a Hanyaa?"

"I never said that, Mr. Coldpack."

"It's Kojak, uh, I mean Kolchak."

"Yes, of course. As to your question, there exists a ritual that will purify a Hanyaa's soul. This allows it to return to human form and ascend to the Spirit World."

"And what does this ritual consist of?"

He ran down the particulars.

"I'm guessing you have all those supplies for sale?"

"I do."

"Am I to assume the ritual is in Japanese?"

"What other language would it be in? Do you have a reason to want this ritual performed?"

"I don't know. Let me get back to you."

I left the shop with my purchase under one arm. When I returned to the I.N.S. offices, I sat down at my desk and picked up a Sharpie. I wrote on the print, GREETINGS FROM HELL! WISH YOU WERE HERE. I scrawled Howard Kirschenbaum's name on an interoffice envelope, slid the print inside, and placed it in the outbox.

Next, I logged on to the Internet and pulled up a special database for journalists to which I.N.S. had a subscription. I checked for any recent news items out of Japan involving desiccated corpses. There were several such items, all in Tokyo. They began three weeks before and ended two days ago, when that jet liner took off for New York.

The Hanyaa had clearly hitched a ride aboard that plane. But why? It must have come here for a reason. Unsure of how to proceed, I checked the Web site of the _Japan Times_ and read the obituaries of Tokyo residents who had died three weeks before. There were dozens, most of whom had no clear connection to the United States.

One name, however, stuck out: Akira Takayama, 67, of Jinbocho, a Tokyo suburb. He had been the founder and president of Takayama Electronics. He left a son, Uchi, of New York City.

Takayama Electronics occupied six floors of a 38-story building on Lenox Avenue near 125th Street. I stepped out of the elevator and into a modest reception area.

The receptionist smiled at me. "Hello. May I help you?"

"I was wondering if Uchi Takayama might be available."

"He's the president of the company, sir. He really doesn't do walk-ins."

"I understand, but I have something important to discuss with him."

"So do a lot of people."

"This is about his father."

She frowned at me. "Mr. Takayama's father died three weeks ago."

"I know. That's what I need to discuss with him."

She sized me up and decided to get rid of me. "Do you have a card?"

I handed her one.

"All right, Mr. Kolchak. I'll give it to him and say that you'd appreciate a call."

The Harlem Hospital Center, 3:30 p.m. Dennis Coleman, who worked at the Larchmont Funeral Home, picked up the body of an elderly woman who had just died on the operating table. By the time he got to it Larchmont, one half-hour later, the corpse had been drained of its fluids.

Larchmont, NY, 9:00 p.m. Uchi Takayama, having put in yet another long day at the office, dragged himself out of his Lexus and entered his house through the garage. Before he could turn on the kitchen light, Uchi saw a shadowy figure in the next room. He blinked rapidly but still saw it.

"Uchi," it rasped.

"Who are you? What do you want with me?"

The figure said in Japanese, "Don't repeat my mistakes."

"What mistakes?" Uchi on flicked the light and ran into the other room. He saw nobody. "Where did you go?"

He collapsed into an armchair, shut his eyes, and massaged his temples. "Maybe it's time to see my shrink."

When I got in the next morning, Vincenzo sent me to Larchmont to investigate the dried-out corpse. The trip was a waste of time; I could have used the phone and saved my gas. When I returned to the office at noon, Liza handed me a phone message. To my surprise, it was from Uchi Takayama. I didn't expect his secretary to so much as give him my card.

When I called, she put me through immediately. "Mr. Kolchak? You wanted to talk to me about my father."

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"I think it's better to have this conversation in person."

"How soon can you be at my office?"

No time like the present.

I arrived at Takayama Electronics carrying a manila envelope filled with news items I had printed off the Internet. Uchi's now-deferential secretary showed me to his office. We exchanged greetings and I sat in front of his desk. The young CEO looked exhausted.

"So, why do you want to talk about my father?"

I took a deep breath. "What I'm about to tell you sounds incredible, and you've every right to think I'm nuts."

"It just so happens, at this time, I'm open to things that are nuts. Tell me what's on your mind."

I launched into a monologue about the last few days' events, bolstering my claims with the printed-off news items. I related the legend of the Hanyaa as the old man in the store had told it and asked Uchi, "Did your father work a lot of hours?"

"Well, yes. He had a business to run."

"Did it seem like he had more time for work than for his family? Did he talk about money a lot?"

"I suppose he did." Pausing, Uchi continued, "Now that you mention it, I recall very few conversations with my father that had nothing to do with profits or his company. And he was out of the house a lot, always working. My mother basically raised me alone. And you want to know the truth? I never cried when my father passed away. We just weren't that close."

"I think that's why your father became a Hanyaa. And he came here to warn you not to follow his path, or you'll suffer the same fate."

Uchi took in what I had told him. "If you had come to me like this a week ago, I never would've given you the time of day. But lately, I've had some weird experiences." He explained to me about the encounters at his office and his house, concluding, "And that voice reminded me of my father. That's why I returned your call. It seemed too coincidental that you had phoned me now, of all times, to ask about him. Still, what you're claiming is awfully far-fetched."

"What other explanation is there? Doesn't my story make sense in context?"

"Yes, and that's what frightens me. So, there's a ritual that can free my father's soul?"

"Yes, but it's rather involved and I can't perform it."

"Because it's in Japanese?"

"Exactly. So, you want to give it a try?"

He blew out his breath through puffed-up cheeks. "I just want these visions to stop. I haven't slept a wink, and I feel half-dead. If you think this ritual could work, let's do it."

I took Uchi to the store in the East Village. Since I knew how to get there, I volunteered to drive. When Uchi got a look at my yellow Mustang, he exclaimed, "How old is this thing?"

"Pretty close to your age."

"Looks like it's closer to my father's age," he said, getting in.

At the store, I introduced Uchi to the elderly proprietor, who was intrigued that we planned to perform the cleansing ritual. Along with selling Uchi the requisite items, he insisted on coaching the young CEO. They spent the next two hours practicing until he was satisfied that Uchi has mastered its rudiments.

As we were leaving, the old man said, "Please let me know how it turns out."

"We will," I replied.

"Thank you, Mr. Goalshack!"

"It's Kolchak."

"Yes, of course."

My guess was that the _Hany_ _a_ _a_ would reappear at Uchi's house. When I suggested we have the ritual there, he agreed. It took us an hour to set everything up. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, the ritual necessitated (among other things) a tatami prayer mat, a gong, a special set of bells, the burning of incense (whose smell I detest), and reading from a Buddhist prayer book. Once we finished the preparations, there was nothing to do but wait. An exhausted Uchi fell asleep on the couch while I sat in the dark and eventually drifted off myself.

"Uchi. Uchi."

I woke up with a start and saw a shadowy figure by the couch. When I flicked on the lamp, the figure disappeared.

I called out, "No, come back! We want to help you."

My shouting awakened Uchi, who sat up with a gasp. "What? Is he here?"

"He was."

"Father! Where are you?"

"Start the ritual," I said. "Maybe that'll get him back."

Uchi did so. He lit incense, knelt down on the prayer mat, and chanted. Within moments, the Hanyaa reappeared in the living room. The sight of him made my heart jump, but I did my best to remain calm. The creature stood motionless and looked intently at Uchi, seeming to understand what the young man was doing. I stood back and kept out of the way.

The ritual seemed to last forever. Sweat ran down Uchi's forehead in rivulets. He rang the bells and banged the gong as the ancient text mandated. He lit fresh incense and chanted until he could barely whisper. And I watched in rapt fascination.

A white light filled the room. It enveloped the Hanyaa and spun like a miniature tornado. Eventually, the light dissipated. When it did, an elderly Japanese man stood where the Hanyaa had been. Uchi stopped chanting, wiped off his forehead, and beheld the sight.

"Father," he said.

The old man smiled beatifically and bowed to his son. " _Arigato_ , Uchi. _Arigato_."

He faded from sight as he ascended to the Spirit World.

Uchi, still kneeling, began to cry. He dropped onto his stomach and pounded the carpeting with his fists. His sobs caused him to undulate. This went on for several minutes until a Uchi, thoroughly drained, rolled over on his back and wiped his eyes as he gasped for breath.

He sat up. "Is it over?"

"It's over; you did it."

"No, Carl; _**we**_ did it."

Uchi was prepared to sell Takayama Electronics, disperse the money to different charities, and move to a Buddhist monastery in Japan. I suggested he take some time before he made any life-altering decisions.

He still runs the company, but limits his workweek to 40 hours. Uchi now devotes the weekends to a newfound hobby: SCUBA diving. He's even dating his SCUBA instructor. When last I heard, they were spending two weeks on a yacht off the coast of Greece.

My experience with the Hanyaa has increased my optimism. If Akira Takayama could be redeemed, there may be hope for me.


End file.
